The Shadow of Lin Po: A Fiction Archive Round-Robin

Part Two by Kate Novak

O'Doul's fingers twitched and grasped at Mary's hand. He clutched
at her fingers with the grip of a drowning man. Mary had the oddest sensation
that the heat of her body flowed like rushing water through her hand into
O'Doul's. He moaned softly and the muscles in his body relaxed.

"Are you all right? Mary asked again.

O'Doul looked up at Mary, his hand still clutching hers. "Something's
in me," he whispered.

"What kind of something?" Mary asked softly.

"Something evil," O'Doul replied.

Mary's disbelief must have shown on her face for O'Doul continued hastily,
"I know, I know it sounds crazy, but I can feel it trying to take over
my body. You—you confused it when you took my hand. But it's still here.
Waiting for me to drop my guard."

Mary gave the man's hand a reassuring squeeze, not certain what to think,
let alone what to say.

O'Doul looked a little sheepish and released his grip on her fingers.
"Just because I'm paranoid, doesn't mean they aren't out to get me," he
muttered under his breath.

"Who?" Mary asked.

O'Doul shrugged. "No one," he answered. "It's just something we used
to say back in my unit."

The bus slowed down, then slowly ground to a halt. In the fog outside
the window Mary could make out the silhouettes of a few figures standing
on the sidewalk.

The bus driver opened the bus door and called out, "Danielsport, Maine,
folks. We'll only be stopped here long enough to unload luggage, so any
passengers bound for destinations farther down east, including Campobello
Island and Calais, please remain aboard." He swung out of his chair and
down the stairs.

Mary shoved her thermos and the newspapers in the side pocket of her
purse with the magazines. Below her she could hear the bus driver opening
the luggage storage compartment. She stood up and slipped on her raincoat
and fastened the buttons and belt. The chill in the air seemed to disperse
as sea-scented air flooded into the bus. The sleeve's of her raincoat clung
stickily to Mary's arms.

The well-dressed elderly man was walking slowly up the aisle toward
the front of the bus. Mary paused to let him pass. He carried the box with
air holes out in front of him, like it was fragile and precious. As he
approached, something in the box squeaked. Then several somethings in the
box hissed and squeaked. The box rocked in the elderly man's hand. He clutched
it tighter, looking alarmed. He hurried passed Mary and O'Doul.

Mary looked down at O'Doul who remained seated, staring out at the fog.
"Mr. O'Doul, aren't you getting off here, too?" she asked.

O'Doul started, and looked up at Mary. "Yeah, thanks," he said, though
he still appeared distracted.

Mary made her way up the bus aisle and descended from the bus. There
was still too much fog to see anything of the town, but she could now make
out details of the figures waiting on the sidewalk. Two large men in trench
coats stood closest to the door. A few feet back a handsome, middle-aged
woman wrapped in a shawl sat in a wheelchair. A sturdy teenage boy in a
school letter jacket leaned against a utility pole. Mary caught a glimpse
of a cloaked and hooded figure standing behind the utility pole. The figure
pulled back into the fog just as Mary noticed it.

"Welcome back, doctor," one of the large trench coated men said to the
elderly man with the box with air holes. "How was your trip?"

"I think we may have a problem," the elderly man said, handing the box
to the man who'd greeted him. The elderly man slid the box lid an inch
off the box and peered into it. "They seem to have gone into shock suddenly.
Most unusual. I can't understand what set them off. We should get them
to the lab quickly."

The elderly man hurried off into the fog with the two large men following
behind him.

The teenage boy pushed himself off the utility pole and approached Mary.
"Miss Wellington?" he asked.

"Yes," Mary replied, acknowledging her identity.

"I'm Lesk," the boy introduced himself. "I'm Mr. Chase's apprentice.
He sent me to get you settled in the hotel. He said to tell you that he
had to drive up to Bangor on some business, so he'll meet you tomorrow
morning at the office. Those your bags?" he asked, pointing to the two
yellow vinyl suitcases which the driver had unloaded from the bus storage
compartment.

"Yes," Mary answered.

Lesk picked up both bags.

"I can get one of those," Mary said, thinking of how heavily she'd packed
both cases.

Lesk shook his head. "No need. I'm in training. These are nothing."
Mary smiled at the youth's bravado, but did not argue. She turned
about to make some farewell to O'Doul, but O'Doul was bent over the woman
in the wheel chair, embracing her wordlessly.

"Follow me," Lesk said.

Mary turned back to Lesk and followed him down the sidewalk, through
the fog. Lesk crossed the street. Mary could hear the bus pulling away,
though she could no longer see it.

The hotel, The Danielsport Arms, was only a block away. Its front door
was fashioned from huge oak planks bounded together by ornately engraved
strips of iron. Lesk set her bags down and pulled the door opened for her,
setting off the tinkling of a bell.

Mary stepped inside—into an inn from another century. The oak floors
were strewn with handmade rag rugs. A fire blazed in a huge stone hearth.
Elaborately carved oaken chairs lined the walls. The oaken bar was polished
dark and smooth by the oil from the fists of generations of Danielsport
drinkers. A pyramid of shot glasses glittered on the bar and glazed ceramic
beer mugs hung from all the wooden rafters. The wall behind the bar was
piled high with wooden barrels, some with brass spigots.

"Mrs. G," Lesk called out as he set down Mary's bags in the lobby by
the staircase that ascended over the bar. He took a look at his wristwatch
then hollered up the stairs for Mrs. G. "She's probably in the back rooms
making up beds," he explained to Mary. "She'll be down in a minute." He
stood watching her nervously, shifting his weight from one leg to another.

Mary smiled self-consciously, and tried to set him at ease with a simple
topic of conversation—the weather. "Think the fog will lift soon?" she
asked.

Lesk shook his head. "Not until after midnight. The wind's supposed
to shift by then and bring more rain," he answered. He glanced at his watch
again.

"If you have somewhere to go, I don't mind waiting alone," Mary said.

"I've got to get to school," Lesk explained. " Let Mrs. G know who you
are and she'll get you settled. I'll stop by this afternoon."

"Fine," Mary agreed.

Lesk hurried from the lobby. Mary removed her raincoat and lay it over
her bags. She went over to the hearth to admire the carved mantelpiece
and enjoy the fire's warmth, her thoughts, however, were still on O'Doul.
The woman in the wheelchair must have been his mother. Would she be able
to deal with her son's strange behavior? Mary wondered.

She shivered, remembering the creatures in the box with the air holes.
Was it just a coincidence they grew agitated as they approached O'Doul?
She'd heard it said animals could sense madness. And evil. Had something
evil shocked the creatures?

Mary shook her head at her flights of fancy. Her father would have laughed
at her speculations, reminding her that she had no proof. Of course, lately
she'd come to rely on her instincts. Her father had taught her to do that,
too, albeit unintentionally. Her mother may have been crazy, but she hadn't
been wrong about her father's affairs.

"Pleased to meet you," the woman said with a nod. "I'm Ginny Gotland.
Everyone calls me Mrs. G. Chase arranged for your stay, but I'm afraid
I was nursing a sick grandson all weekend, so your room's not quite ready.
If you'd like you can leave your bags and go have breakfast across the
street at Millie's Diner. Tell Millie I sent you over. I should have your
room ready by the time you get back."

"That would be fine," Mary replied.

Mrs. G handed Mary an old key. "Room 9 at the back of the upstairs hall.
It has the nicest view of the bay, on days it's not fogged in, that is.
I'll leave your bags in your room."

"Thank you. After breakfast I thought I'd stop in at the paper to see
the offices before Mr. Chase gets back," Mary said. "Can you tell me which
way there?"

"It's just next door," Mrs. G said, pointing to the right side of the
building, "but there's no sense going over there now. Sheriff's put a padlock
on the door until Chase pays an outstanding debt."

An uncomfortable suspicion seized Mary. "Is the Danielsport Record having
financial difficulties?"

"Not really. Chase wrote an editorial which ticked off some bankers
who called in a personal loan Chase took out. They didn't give Chase much
warning. Just their way of venting their spleen. Chase doesn't really own
the paper though, his sister up in Bangor does. So the sheriff isn't really
allowed to close the office, but Chase has to get some legal paper that
says that."

"But he'll still have to pay off the loan," Mary said.

"Oh, that will settle out once Natalie Daniels gets back from New York.
She was never one to let personal feelings interfere in bank business like
her brother does. You just go have yourself a nice breakfast, stroll through
the town if you want. Careful crossing the street in the fog."

Mary nodded. She put her raincoat back on and once again stepped out
into the streets of Danielsport.

Millie's Diner was busy, a testament to Millie's skill as a chef. Mary
savored her pancakes while eavesdropping on fishermen discussing other
fishermen who hadn't yet found their way home to port in the fog.

After breakfast, following Mrs. G's advice, Mary strolled down the sidewalk,
peering into the shops. Despite the fog, there were several people doing
business in town at the drug store, the hardware store, the grocer, and
the barber shop. More seasonal businesses were closed until Memorial Day,
when the tourists began their northern migrations. The remaining shops
were manned by proprietors reading the newspaper or dusting their goods.

Eventually she came upon O'Douls' Old Things. The display window resembled
a miniature room cluttered with beautiful antiques. The sign in the window
declared the shop was closed, but Mary tried the doorknob anyhow. It turned
in her hand.

She hesitated for a moment. Her instinct told her she should check on
O'Doul while her head reminded her that entering would mean disturbing
a family reunion at a time of grief.

Suddenly Mary sensed someone watching her back. She whirled about and
caught the briefest glimpse of a cloaked and hooded figure before it backed
into the fog and disappeared with a hiss. Inexplicably frightened, Mary
pushed open the door to the O'Douls shop, stepped inside and pushed the
door closed behind her. Overhead a bell tinkled.

From the back of the shop a woman's voice cried out, "No! Justin, fight
him! You must fight him!"

Feeling awkward about stepping into a family argument, Mary stepped
into the shadow of a large chifforobe.

Justin stalked out from behind a curtained doorway. The woman in the
wheelchair rolled after him. Justin picked up a crystal goblet and threw
it at the woman. She ducked just in time. The goblet smashed into hundreds
of pieces against the wall behind her.

"Justin!" the woman cried. "Concentrate."

"Cease your whining, woman," O'Doul growled. "Your son is mine now."

There was a strange accent to O'Doul's voice. Asian, Mary thought. She
remained very still. She was unable to decide what to do and more than
a little frightened. The chill she'd felt on the bus filled the room.

O'Doul strode over to the cash register and punched a key. When the
drawer did not open, he banged at the register with the side of his hand
and spat out angry words in a language Mary did not understand. There was
an elaborate antique bird cage on the counter beside the cash register.
Two bright yellow canaries fluttered inside. O'Doul put his hands on the
top of the cage and glared at the creatures. The birds went wild. They
cried out in high pitched shrills and flew against the bars of the cage,
flapping their wings with such fury that their feathers began falling off.
After several horrifying moments the birds fell to the floor of the cage
and lay still.

O'Doul reached into the cage and picked up one of the birds by its feet.
He tossed it into the lap of the woman in the wheelchair. "Unless you wish
to share the same fate," he snarled, "you will give me the key immediately."

Fearing the worst, Mary stepped out from the shadows. "Mr O'Doul, what
is going on here?" she demanded.

O'Doul spun about. "You!" he snapped. "Do not interfere again, or you
will regret it." His eyes began glowing bright red.

Mary gasped. She felt a horrible ache in her chest as her heart pounded
against her rib cage. Some instinct warned her to flee, but she held her
ground, as determined to discover what was going on as she was to protect
this woman and keep O'Doul from doing something he'd regret. She began
gasping for air, unable to get enough in her lungs to ease the pain in
her chest.

The woman in the wheelchair rolled forward and grabbed O'Doul's hand
with both of hers.

O'Doul screamed once like a wounded animal, then collapsed to his knees
before the wheelchair. His body shook and he gave a great shuddering sigh.
His head dropped into the woman's lap beside the still canary.

Suddenly Mary found she could breath easily, and the pain in her chest
subsided. "What's going on here?" she demanded again.

Still clutching O'Doul's hand, the woman in the wheelchair looked up
at Mary and replied calmly, "A contest between good and evil. And who might
you be?"

Mary replied all in a rush, trying to explain her uninvited presence.
"I'm Mary Wellington. I met Mr. O'Doul on the bus. He had some kind of
fit just as we entered town. I just stopped by to see if he was all right.
I guess he isn't, is he? Are you his mother? Sylvia O'Doul isn't it?"

"Yes," the woman replied. "I am Sylvia O'Doul. And I owe you thanks
for your concern, and for intervening."

O'Doul looked up at his mother. "What is this thing in me?" he whispered.

"A curse," Sylvia O'Doul replied. "One which you have inherited from
your poor father." She released her hold on her son's hand, and from the
pocket on her shirt she drew out a folded sheet of paper. She unfolded
the paper and held it out for her son to see.

Mary moved toward them and peered down at the paper. It was a copy of
a bill of sale for an antique urn made out to Marcus O'Doul. The bill included
a sketch of the urn.

"Your father brought this item back from a Bangor estate sale two weeks
ago," Sylvia O'Doul explained to her son. "He bought it on a whim, without
checking into its evil provenance."

"Its what?" Mary asked.

"Its provenance," Justin O'Doul replied emotionlessly. "Its the antique's
background, its origin and all its known owners. So what was the provenance?"
he asked his mother.

"It was the funeral urn for an official of the Chinese government during
the early nineteenth century. He was known as Li Po, and he was greedy
and corrupt and evil. You know of the Opium Wars?" she asked, looking up
at Mary.

"That's the war the British started when the Chinese burned a bunch
of British ships which were smuggling opium into China," Mary answered.

"Yes," Sylvia O'Doul said. "Against the decree of his emperor Li Po
helped British merchants smuggle in the opium which poisoned his own people.
With his ill-gotten wealth Li Po built a fortress and studied the dark
arts. During the Opium Wars, the emperor's troops besieged Li Po's fortress.
Li Po had a funeral urn fashioned for himself. It was made with the finest
clay, mixed, so legend says, with the blood of maidens he had despoiled
and murdered. He lay a curse upon the urn so that once his ashes were placed
within his spirit could possess the body of whoever owned the urn. When
Li Po was finally captured, the emperor had him tortured to death and his
body left out on a spike. One of Li Po's servants stole the body and had
it cremated and placed the ashes in the urn, fulfilling the conditions
of the curse."

Despite having witnessed Justin O'Doul's inexplicable behavior, and
strange power, Mary felt exceedingly uncomfortable with the direction Sylvia
O'Doul's story was taking. While she had a passing interest in matters
of the occult, Mary was far too skeptical to believe such matters readily.
Justin O'Doul did not challenge his mother's tale though, so Mary remained
silent, for the time being.

"Go on," O'Doul urged his mother.

"After the Opium Wars," Sylvia O'Doul explained, "Li Po's servant gave
the urn to a wealthy British merchant who took it to England. It has been
inherited since then by many men of wealth and power. Li Po possessed each
one, corrupted them, spent their fortunes and ravaged their bodies with
his excesses, both mundane and magical. It is not easy for him to completely
possess a new host, though. The body he is in must die first so that his
spirit can return to the urn. He must wait for whoever he has chosen as
the beneficiary of his estate to come near to the urn. Then he battles
that man's spirit for control of his body. In 1862, the owner of the urn
died of cholera before Li Po made out a new will. The dead man's estate,
with the urn, was inherited by a monastery. Unable to possess a holy order
as he could a man, Li Po was forced to reside in the urn for nearly a century.
During the war in Europe the urn was looted from the monastery and sold
to an American. The urn's curse passed through several wealthy Americans
until one of them died in a car crash before he made out a will. The urn
was purchased at his estate sale by your father."

"And Li Po possessed my father?" O'Doul asked.

Sylvia O'Doul nodded. "I did not understand what was wrong with your
father at first. Neither did he. He gave the urn to a woman, a complete
stranger, and could not remember having done so. Then the daughter of one
of the previous owners telephoned and told me of the curse. She had tried
to purchase the urn to destroy it, but your father got to it before she
did. I hurried to the sheriff and swore out a complaint against the woman,
trying to get the urn back so I could destroy it before your father was
completely possessed. But the sheriff could not find the urn. Then your
father disappeared."

"He went off on a yacht with the woman you mentioned," Mary guessed.

The older woman nodded. "But Li Po could not leave the urn to someone
else since I had a claim to it. I had hoped in this way to keep him from
destroying my husband, but I had forgotten my son was heir to half his
father's estate. Li Po must have decided Justin's youth would serve him
better, at least make up for our family's lack of wealth."

"No," Justin said. "I knew Li Po's thoughts when he was in my mind.
Dad killed himself before Li Po could corrupt his body and soul. He jumped
off the yacht before Li Po possessed him completely."

"An old woman who cannot walk? He does not consider me worthy," Sylvia
O'Doul explained.

"Why not just agree to sell the urn to someone else this Li Po can't
possess?" Mary suggested. "Another monastery or a museum?"

"It is too late for that," Justin's mother explained. "Once Li Po's
spirit has left the urn to begin the battle of possession it must finish
the conquest and live in the body until its death. Only then can it return
to the urn and start again. My son is doomed if we cannot find the urn
and destroy it before Li Po wins the battle for possession."

"He won't win," Justin declared. From the pocket of his jacket he drew
out a gun. "I'll follow my father before I'll let that thing use my body."
He held the gun up to his head.

"Justin, no," Sylvia O'Doul cried out. "Do not give up hope yet. There
is still time. As long as you can stay alert and concentrate you can fight
the possession."

"How long is that, mother?" O'Doul argued. "A day? Until midnight? Can
I make it until dawn? Better to choose my end before I'm powerless to make
the choice." He flipped the safety catch on the gun.

Mary swallowed hard, her mind racing for the words to turn O'Doul from
his course of action. She couldn't handle another suicide in her life.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the vision of her own mother with her
head lying on a pillow inside the gas oven.

His mother! Mary thought. He has to care about her more than anything.
"Justin, think about your mother," she said. "If you do this, Li Po will
be left with no choice but to possess her body. You have to fight it as
long as you can, for her sake as well as your own."

Doubt appeared on O'Doul's face as he took in Mary's words and considered
them.

"You're right," he agreed. He lowered the gun and slipped the safety
catch back on.

"Why don't you put the gun down?" Mary suggested.

O'Doul shook his head. "I feel safer holding on to it."

"I'll make a deal with you," Mary said. "Give the gun to your mother,
and I'll go find the urn and destroy it."

"You shouldn't be involved in this," O'Doul argued. "Li Po and his associates
are dangerous enemies."

"I'm not going to let you kill yourself," Mary insisted. "Even if it
means pretending I believe this whole crazy story. Promise me you'll fight
this thing long enough for me to find this urn."

"I can look for it myself," O'Doul said.

"No," Sylvia O'Doul said. "You must stay here and concentrate on the
battle against the spirit. Any distraction could provide Li Po with the
opportunity to strike again. I will help Miss Wellington."

Mary shook her head. "I think it would be better if you stay here and
help Justin concentrate. Justin, I think you should give the gun to your
mother just in case. If Li Po gets possession of you for even a moment,
don't you think it would be better if he didn't have a gun to hold on Sylvia?"

Mary held her breath while Justin mulled over her words. "You're right,"
he said finally. He handed his mother the weapon.

Mary sighed with relief. She looked down at Justin's mother "You'll
look after your son, right? No suicides."

Sylvia O'Doul nodded.

Justin stood up. He took Mary's hands in his own. "Why are you doing
this?" he asked.

"Maybe I'm going crazy, too," Mary joked with a bitter sense of irony.
"Of course, just because I'm crazy doesn't mean Li Po isn't out to get
you," she added.

"You do not believe any of this, so you do not understand the danger,"
O'Doul said sternly.

"I understand what I need to understand," Mary retorted.

"What do you understand?" O'Doul asked, challenging her.

"That I don't like living with guilt and regret. I'd trade it for living
in danger any day," Mary snapped.

O'Doul looked surprised by her words. Surprised that she had spoken
them. "Maybe you do understand something," he said. "Still, you are taking
a great risk to save a stranger."

"Have you considered that I might be doing it to save myself, Mr O'Doul?"
Mary asked.

O'Doul nodded as if he understood even though he couldn't possibly know
about her mother's madness and suicide and her own guilt. "Then I'll trust
you to save us all," he said. "I'll wait as long as I can."

Mary nodded. Determination swept over her. She would find the urn for
O'Doul and his mother. And for her own sake. She had to.